


Mycroft's present

by xlechatnoir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xlechatnoir/pseuds/xlechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas on 221B Baker Street, year after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft's present

 

 Since last Christmas life at 221B Baker Street hasn’t changed much. John still worked in a nearby clinic, but most of all he helped (or at least he wanted to think that he really does help) Sherlock during cases. It really seemed the murderers, thieves and villains of London’s streets had been on leave, unfortunately they came back the very morning of 26th December. John has been awoken by Lestrade’s nagging knocking on their door and simultaneously by Sherlock’s phone vibrating under the pillow. The one on which detective’s black curls were scattered, John could hear incomprehensible grunt when Sherlock wrinkled his nose in sleep and turned around. John Watson sighed, pushed the button on the touch screen (when he’d found the telephone) and got up. Just as he was about to leave the room, he heard not so sleepy voice “Tell him I’m busy” from the bed.

“Bastard” John muttered under his breath putting on his jeans and a woollen jumper. He really had believed Sherlock was asleep.

John liked Lestrade but it wasn’t the detective inspector’s face which John wanted to look at that morning. He listened, he nodded several times, he took an envelope with important instructions for Sherlock (if Sherlock has ever needed the instructions) and at the end of that rather one-sided conversation he said with weary smile “Merry Christmas”.

“Tough night, huh?” Lestrade brought up pointing at John. The doctor blushed a little with eyes suddenly wide open and cautious. “You look tired John. I must have woken you up, right? Your jumper is turned inside out” he added seeing John’s attentive face.

“Um… Yeah, we… We’ve worked until the small hours” John scratched his head in a perplexed manner smiling slightly. At the corner of his eye he spotted Mrs Hudson carrying her dustbin liner. She shot him the look like she was saying “I know, or rather I’ve _heard_ , what you’ve been doing last night!” making John blush even more but then she smiled and showed him “thumbs up”. By then John’d flushed with the beetroot colour. 

“Well, duty calls. Get some sleep then” Lestrade smiled and put his hat on. “And merry Christmas” he added before closing the door behind him.

His side of the bed was still warm, he crawled in and it haven’t been even one minute when he felt long, slim arms wrapping around him.

“What did he want?” Sherlock asked with lips muffled by John’s nape.

“I’m not talking to you, you manipulative bastard” John mumbled, but he nestled down detective’s arms already sleepy.

“John…”

Sherlock’s lips brushed against his nape, then his tousled, fair hair, John felt the other man’s hot breath on his skin and slim fingers caressing his torso through woollen jumper.

“I’ve left everything at your desk, on your laptop” he whispered with closed eyes, he slowly dozed off but he could still sense Sherlock’s silhouette pressed to his back and that the firm arms didn’t leave him.

 

 

As I said, life at Baker Street hasn’t changed much, or maybe just slightly. Sherlock constantly refused to eat on a regular basis, he was using nicotine patches, he slept too much or too little driving John insane whenever he was pacing through the living room while John was trying to have a nap on the sofa. “John, John don’t sleep. John, John you are not listening. John, no I don’t want to sleep, John, John listen to me”. Mrs Hudson had finally twigged what was going on at the flat number 221B. Nonetheless she still treated Sherlock and John like two big children, maybe even more than previously. From time to time she had a chit-chat with John or patted Sherlock’s shoulder always complaining about how skinny he is and is John taking care of him.

To John’s dread Sherlock’s habit of using their fridge to store the dead bodies’ parts hadn’t changed at all. After a year and a half John’s just got used to finding a severe head or a pot full of cut-off thumbs swimming in formalin. Fortunately, after a sigh and rolling his eyes, Sherlock’s consented with using for them other shelf.

Then, a year after, Christmas came again, as unwanted as ever, because some things never change…

“Sherlock! Sherlock, for heaven’s sake it’s six in the morning!”… like violin, John exclaimed entering the living room in his crumpled t-shirt and stripped pyjamas trousers. 

“John, if I’m not mistaken, and I’m quite sure I’m not, it was you who had agreed some time ago to the violin, am I right?” Sherlock was sitting comfortably next to a big, but undecorated Christmas tree in his dressing gown with an instrument resting on his lap.

“Yes… But… Sherlock it’s Christmas, it’s _really_ early and maybe you’ve forgotten I’d come back very, very late last night” John sighed after rubbing his face like he was trying to get rid of the remains of sleep.

“Oh I remember _that_ ” detective shot him a glance from above the violin, the same one which John saw last night when Sherlock grunted under the covers “really John? _Leprechaun’s pub_? You really couldn’t find worse place to waste your time in?”.

“About the violin – it helps me think” he added wrinkling his brows when tuning in the instrument. By then John wasn’t sleepy any more, he frowned squatting down next to the boxes filled with Christmas tree decorations.

“Think? About what?” yes, John still tended to make a mistake of wanting to get know Sherlock’s thoughts (on Sherlock’s mind and his way of thinking he’d given up long time ago). For just a second Sherlock hesitated balancing the bow on his ring finger.

“Nothing. Just… Things”

“Things?”

“Yes, things. Is that some kind of interrogation?” Sherlock peeked at John rising one eyebrow. The smaller man shook his head and got up leaving the Christmas tree ornaments for now.

“No, of course not. I’m going to make us a breakfast”

“Good idea” Sherlock tried his tuned violin, but he wasn’t satisfied so he continued to torture the poor instrument. When John entered the kitchen, he heard detective’s voice from the living room “I’m not eating!”.

“Yes, you are!” John shouted back taking out jam and some peanut butter.

 

“John is it really has to be that big?” Sherlock questioned stretching his arm to put a star on the top of the Christmas tree. John was sitting on the Persian carpet surrounded by the scattered ornaments.

“Yes” he answered shortly too busy with his annual fight with tangled up Christmas tree lights.

“I’m sorry, but I have to enlighten you that the height of the Christmas tree isn’t proportional to the amount of happiness during Christmas time” detective said with hands on his hips looking quite proud of himself.

“Oh, according to my experience, it actually is” John smiled broadly tugging Sherlock’s belt and drawing detective down to his level. Sherlock almost tumbled down with their Christmas tree when he tried to steady himself. John chuckled against detective’s full lips and kissed him still smiling. “Don’t you dare to ruin our tree” he added then kissed Sherlock again before he straightened up.

“What a lovely Christmas tree!” familiar voice sounded from the threshold. “Oh, no, it’s you, John, nice to see you” Mycroft smiled leaving his umbrella in the standing.

“Very funny Mycroft, your tongue have sharpened” Sherlock snarled instead of greeting his brother. He took next two glass balls to hang them on the tree. In the meantime Mycroft took off his wet coat and sat next to the fireplace in Sherlock’s favourite armchair. He slowly folded his leather gloves seeming uninterested in John and Sherlock.

“He in truth has you under his thumb, little brother” Mycroft said suddenly polishing his watch. Seeing Sherlock bewildered look, he pointed with his head at the little angel in Sherlock’s hand. John rolled his eyes standing up and untangling himself from the Christmas tree lights.

“I’m going to prepare some tea” he muttered already used to the conversations like this. He’d learned so far that the sooner he leave the room the earlier Sherlock will get rid of Mycroft.

“Good idea, John” said Sherlock and Mycroft simultaneously gazing at each other. The air in the living room stiffened, the doctor knew that new, silent Holmes’ brothers fight broke out. At a time like that John missed Mrs Hudson cheerful twitter and her small talk, at a time like that when in your living room were two Holmes’ brothers, one extremely irritated, even kitchen with a severe head in your fridge seemed cosy.

 

Sherlock looked back at John’s disappearing figure. He put away the glass ball, sighing inside every time he glanced at his brother sitting in _his_ armchair with definitely too smug expression all over his face. Without hesitation he sat opposite him in John’s armchair. Mycroft’s always had some kind of specific influence on Sherlock, because no matter how much Sherlock tried to concentrate on something else then Mycroft in Mycroft’s present, he failed. This time he was stubbornly coming back to the thoughts about Christmas and their settled tasks (even if he’d never admit to this) of decorating Christmas tree, writing Christmas cards and doing some research just to have a break. And Sherlock didn’t even like Christmas! John could have change his way of acting during that “special time” but he could never change his attitude.

“Spare me the introduction Mycroft. Why did you come here?” Sherlock asked not letting his brother say a word when he’s just opened his mouth.

“I don’t know what happened to your manners Sherlock, but if you insist… Since what did occur last Christmas between you and John, I feel more obliged than ever to buy him a present” Mycroft smiled and his smile broadened seeing Sherlock’s attentive stare. “So I thought the easiest way is to ask you about your opinion. What did you buy him last year?”

“It’s none of your business” Sherlock retorted. He felt simply insulted that his brother thought he could mislead him with such a lame excuse. Apparently Mycroft was hoping for some more than that, so when Sherlock stayed silent a little longer with a weird grimace on his face, Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

“Sherlock? Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No, not at all. I just can’t believe we really are having this conversation. I said – spare me the introduction.” Sherlock was regarding his nails, he shot only one look at Mycroft though he knew his brother was observing him with not anymore content stare.

“You are impossible, is it really that hard to simply believe I want to buy your boyfriend a present?”

“Actually it is and John is not my… Mycroft what do you want? I’m not in a mood for your little games” Sherlock sighed thanking John in his mind for staying in the kitchen for so long. Mycroft looked at him like he was saying “You’re never in the mood”, but finally he said :

“I want you to come home. For Christmas.”

“Here is my home” detective answered shortly pretending he didn’t have a clue what Mycroft meant.

“Mummy will be pleased.”

“No” Sherlock hoped John wasn’t listening.

“Don’t act like a child” Mycroft retorted patiently. For Sherlock’s content Mycroft was getting more and more irritated.

“So don’t treat me like one.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but according to the last Christmas events I thought about you and John as a couple. Wouldn’t it be nice to invite him to your family’s house for a Christmas dinner?” Mycroft kept his eyes on Sherlock, opening and closing his pocket watch. For detective this conversation has never been anything pleasant but now it turned to something insufferable. As always Mycroft hit the most sensitive spot and he knew about it perfectly well. Things, and also words, like “couple”, “boyfriend” and “Christmas dinner” has never used to meet in Sherlock life nor even in a sentence about his life. Especially not in a one sentence spoken by his brother.

“I’m afraid I’ll pass. As I said I’m not going. I’m perfectly fine with staying here for Christmas. And about John… I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of family meeting with John as my… partner” Sherlock got up, straightening his purple shirt and avoiding Mycroft’s eyes. He hated labels, furthermore he wasn’t sure that “couple” was a word for them.

“But maybe John would like it” Mycroft answered lowering his eyes to his pocket watch. He checked the time and got up, when Sherlock heard John’s approaching footsteps. “Oh, that’s so nice of you John…”

“Mycroft was just leaving” Sherlock ended for him with a wry smile. At the corner of his eyes he saw that on a tray were only two cups of tea.

“Nice seeing you. Merry Christmas Mycroft” John said placing the tray on a coffee table. Mycroft nodded smiling at both of them, put his coat on and took his umbrella before he left, he glanced the one last time at Sherlock.

“Merry Christmas John” he said closing the door.

“What did he want?” John whispered to Sherlock a little unsure if Mycroft could still here them. The dark haired man glanced at him with a bizarre expression on his face, but then he shook his head coming back to the reality.

“Nothing.” He answered simply, planting a kiss on John’s forehead. Sherlock sat in his armchair and instead of decorating their Christmas tree he continued to play with his violin balancing the bow on his finger. John frowned observing his friend, quite startled by Sherlock’s unexpected affection. Something was wrong, but John didn’t say a word. Drinking his cup of tea he hoped the matter will solve itself with time. The only thing what was bothering John, was that, according to his experience, none of the problems has ever did.

 

After Mycroft had left, Sherlock stayed silent sipping his tea with an enigmatic look on his face with his eyes focused on non-existent point in the living room. Finally, the detective put aside his cup of tea and helped John with decorating the Christmas tree and the rest of the flat. But that was all, afterward he came back to his contemplation. Even when John turned on the radio and Mariah Carey’s voice filled the living room, Sherlock rested in his armchair deeply sunk in his thoughts. John lit up the fireplace, glancing from time to time at his flatmate, wondering what on earth could have happened when he was taking his time preparing tea in the kitchen. Of course he used to see Sherlock storming out of their flat, yelling, shouting, even cursing, sometimes the taller man tended to rest like this for many hours too irritated to speak, but this time was different. John had never seen this peculiar look on Sherlock’s face and it quite bothered him. Nonetheless he knew that pushing too hard wasn’t the best idea. As always he decided to give Sherlock time to think, if only he could knew what was that all about… But being a reasonable and most of all patient man, John Watson decided to do something more productive than sulking and agonising over Sherlock’s possibly next crazy idea. He sighed and went to the kitchen, a pudding won’t make itself.

Fortunately John wasn’t capable of reading Sherlock’s mind. Usually, or maybe quite always, Sherlock’s thoughts were organised, they were like books catalogued on their proper shelves and labelled with installed search programme and algorithms. Alas, there wasn’t any book for John, nor for Mycroft’s “John meeting Holmes’ family”. Of course Sherlock’s tried to make one in his head for John, but the case of John Watson was simply impossible to be catalogued. And that bothered Sherlock, because he could still heard Mycroft’s “but maybe John would like it”. Dark haired detective wasn’t used to think about other people’s lives or needs, he didn’t know what would make John happy (entirely happy, because daily happy was quite easy to achieve – don’t play violin at six in the morning, eat, go to bed before two o’clock and don’t store dead body parts in the fridge). Also, a “c” word was terrifying. In Sherlock’s imagination his mother and his father has been a couple, just like some crazy teenage boys and girls, responsible businessmen and businesswomen, but he and John? He has never thought about himself as being somebody’s partner. He hated family meetings in general, especially his birthdays, though even a sociopath was perfectly aware that coming to the Christmas dinner with someone from outside the family and introducing him as your partner was something really big. Incredibly big. It wasn’t his mother’s or Mycroft’s or anyone’s reaction which worried Sherlock, it was his life’s reaction he was afraid of. He dreaded to admit it, but he was happy, he was completely content with their current arrangement. What if something will change? Sherlock wouldn’t like to be like his parents or any other people in the world, because this, _this_ was he and John and he knew John (he himself too, he has never been modest) was someone special. He wasn’t his boyfriend, his partner or just a flatmate. Sherlock still couldn’t figure out the proper definition.

“Sherlock, it’s late, you should go to bed” John’s voice interrupted his train of thoughts. He felt John’s warm hand on his head, he muzzled his hair then headed to the stairs. What if something will change? What if John will change? What if they will be just a couple? Will that make John happy? Sherlock doubted that. He frowned sitting all by himself next to the crackling fireplace. The lights flickering on the Christmas tree and the fire has been the only source of light in the living room illuminating Sherlock’s composed silhouette. Of course John was important to him, even more than anyone, but this was so… _new_. There were no paths, no algorithms nor theories Sherlock could follow. He didn’t have to look up to them, because if there were some, John wouldn’t be exceptional and about this Sherlock was perfectly sure. Maybe the time hasn’t come for them yet, maybe on other occasion, maybe next year, maybe not because Mycroft wanted this.

John was standing in the dark watching Sherlock carefully from the threshold. He was observing the dim light on the detective’s pensive features. He has seen Sherlock looking exasperated, furious, contemplative or simply tired, but he had never seen him so… sad and worried. After a brief moment of hesitation he came up silently to Sherlock and sat next to him on the armchair’s arm.

“My mum used to say that you can turn grey from too much thinking” he whispered stroking carefully Sherlock’s curls.

“Would you mind if I…?” John heard Sherlock’s deep voice.

“Of course not” he answered kissing his temple. “Don’t stay up for too long” John added standing up and heading again to their bedroom. Sherlock watched him go then he sighed and he closed his eyes resting his chin on the tops of his mingled hands’ fingers.

 

John’s side of bed was empty and no longer warm when Sherlock woke up, he stretched in the bed patting the sheets next to him like he was assuring himself that John wasn’t hiding somewhere. It’s been noon already.

“John!” Sherlock put on his dressing gown and went up to the kitchen looking for some cup of tea on the table. “John!” he repeated once he heard no answer. The only thing he’d found in the kitchen was unfinished mug of coffee and a dirty plate next to it. The detective frowned regarding the still life scene. He called John for the third time. Nothing. Sherlock started to look around the flat searching for some note from John, he checked his phone and his laptop, a mirror, a fridge, a coffee table, even a skull. Still nothing. He hoped for a brief message like “We ran out of jam. 5 min.” or “Be back soon”, but there was none. Only the nagging view of the dirty plate and John’s mug. John wasn’t that kind of man who don’t clean after himself. Sherlock was, but not John. The dark haired man sat on his armchair feeling his head filled with thoughts. He was telling himself he was overreacting. John was a grown-up man and Sherlock hadn’t been exactly the best listener in the world. Maybe yesterday John said something about going somewhere, he wasn’t paying attention and here he is, alone, worrying and making fool of himself. But unfortunately Sherlock knew he wasn’t a drama queen type and he was aware of when he should and when he should not, be concerned about things.

He sprinted to their bedroom to get dress and then rummage the flat. He always knew where John was, even when John didn’t tell him. One hour passed, Sherlock has checked John’s laptops, newspapers, books, notebooks, coat and bag. Nothing. He called the clinic just to be sure, but John wasn’t on duty that day. It was Christmas for heaven’s sake!

“Mrs Hudson!” he left the flat in a hurry nearly colliding with the landlady in the corridor.

“Sherlock, what’s got into you, huh?” Mrs Hudson straightened her clothes regarding him suspiciously.

“Mrs Hudson, did you speak with John today? Has anyone come to him today? Have you seen anybody?” Sherlock asked quickly peering at the landlady.

“Um… No, dear, I didn’t speak with him, but… Yes, there was this tall, handsome man. He was dressed in black, he went to your flat…”

“But did John talk with him? Did he go out with him?” Sherlock questioned stubbornly.

“How should I know that, dear? I’m not nosy!” Mrs Hudson answered proudly. She wanted to ask him about what was going on but Sherlock has already gone out dialling his brother’s number.

“Sherlock I really don’t have a time, I’m on a very imp…” Mycroft answered after few signals sounding slightly annoyed of being interrupted.

“John has been missing”

“Nonsense. I saw him yesterday and he was perfectly fine”

“But he disappeared. Today. About ten in the morning” said Sherlock pacing in front of the building.

“Don’t you think you’re a little bit overreacting? John is a grown-up…” Sherlock heard his brother’s already bored tone. And then came the thought.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock started with his voice sharp.

“Oh please, don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t kidnap him, not this time. Believe me or not I have more pending affairs than kidnapping your boyfriend. You’re a detective, aren’t you? Figure it out. Deduct it” and he hung up.

The most terrifying thing was that Sherlock wasn’t able to deduct anything at the moment. He saw only the red flaring light in his mind, his only thought was “John, John, John” when he felt his heart racing and his hands getting sweaty. This was the most important matter to deduct, but even though he couldn’t do anything than panic and look around searching for answers or hints. His experience was useless or even perilous for him, because again he saw John in the swimming pool wrapped in a ticking bomb, near Moriarty, with red lasers points all over his body.

“Calm down for heaven’s sake and think. Think” he ordered himself pacing in front of the Baker Street 221.

That afternoon Sherlock called Lestrade, he called John’s friends and acquaintances. He was almost everywhere, he was asking, shouting, pacing, running, feeling dizzy like he had a fever. Mrs Hudson promised him she would call him if John came back. But she didn’t. Because John didn’t. And he, Sherlock Holmes, didn’t know where John was.

At four o’clock in the afternoon he stopped. London has ended for him, he was at the other side of Thames near the docks and he still didn’t find John. No ransom has been demanded, no message, no threats. It was like John really disappeared because of the unknown reasons. Sherlock wasn’t worried, he was devastated. He was watching the river, its dark, muddy water, at the corner of his eye he saw a city getting dark and then millions of lights started to turn on creating a beautiful illumination.

After standing on the riverside for two hours, Sherlock decided to go home, maybe he missed something (impossible), maybe John came back and Mrs Hudson has forgotten to inform him (improbable), but must of all it was no use wasting the precious time wondering what could have happened and what he, Sherlock, would to without John. Sherlock knew that with these kind of thoughts he could only end up in Thames. He forgot it was Christmas, it didn’t matter anymore, as matter of fact Christmas has started to matter something when John Watson appeared in his life.

On his way home he was sure he hadn’t overreacted. There weren’t things in this world which Sherlock Holmes would disregard. And amongst of all people he knew when something was wrong, especially with John. The Big Ben chimed seven o’clock while Sherlock opened the door and walked in taking off his coat and long, navy scarf. Just after a second he heard a clutter and raised voices from upstairs. Mrs Hudson was nowhere to be found, the corridor was deep in the dark, the only dim light was coming from the chink between the doors leading to his and John’s flat. That was suspicious. Without too much thinking Sherlock took out his gun (fortunately he had taken it with him earlier) and he dashed up the stairs storming to the little corridor then to the kitchen.

“Sherlock for heaven’s sake! Put the gun down!” John exclaimed standing near the kitchen table with the baking gloves on his hands. There came a laughter from the living room, Sherlock heard Christmas carols and clinking of glass.

“Sherlock are you alright?” John frowned, his face assumed concerned, alerted look. Sherlock quickly did as he was told, and before John could say something more, he hugged him tightly. “Sherlock, are you alright? Do you have a fever? Sherlock?” John kept on asking feeling his friend’s rapid heartbeat and how his cheeks were flushed.

“Where the hell have you been?!” the dark haired man demanded tightening his grip on John’s shoulders.

“Oh… You’d better ask your brother about that” he answered patiently glancing at the living room. Merely Sherlock muttered his brother’s name, Mycroft walked into the kitchen smiling broadly.

“You’re late Sherlock” he said.

“My…” Sherlock started but he stopped seeing with who Mycroft has come. “Mummy?” he shot Mycroft surprised glare, then he looked at John already occupied with fresh baked cookies.

“It’s so nice of you Sherly that you’ve finally invited your own mother for a Christmas dinner. Even if you yourself have come late” a thin, short woman in her late sixties smiled, putting aside her glass of wine. She was wearing a mauve two piece dress, her grey hair was combed neatly with a hair-pin decorated with pearls. Sherlock resembled more his mother than Mycroft did. She had the same grey eyes but with much more warm in them. Sherlock’s heard John’s snort from behind when his mother called him “Sherly” and then hugged him gently.

“He’s really sweet” She whispered to Sherlock not letting anyone except him hear that. Sherlock’s felt his cheeks burning a little, his mother stepped back, took her wine and said : “I must go back, Martha has been telling me about her unfaithful husband. I can’t leave her like that” and she returned to the living room. Mycroft took an opportunity and followed his mother sipping his wine contently.

“He came while you were asleep. I think you really should talk with your brother about kidnapping me” John spoke calmly taking of the baking gloves. “I really don’t see a point in kidnapping me in this situation, but…We picked up your mother then returned here right away. And you...” he regarded Sherlock who still was regaining his composure. “And you’ve thought something dreadful happened, of course.”

“You are getting absolutely too good on this” Sherlock sighed straightening his clothes. Now, when he knew John was perfectly fine and safe, he saw himself from the previous hours, a madman darting through London’s streets, ready to drown in the dark Thames’ waters. He has always been brilliant, a genius, but without John… without John he has always been on the edge, just one step from the deadly water.

“Sherlock? I don’t like that look on your face. About Mycroft…” John said buttoning Sherlock’s shirt properly.

“I’m going to kill him when Mummy gets back to the house” Sherlock answered shortly. Afterward he leaded John to the living room, the time has come to survive the Christmas dinner. Everything has already been settled – the table, the dishes, the bottles of red wine. Mrs Hudson was chatting with his mother, Mycroft has been texting somebody all the evening, and during the dinner Sherlock could feel John’s hand on his lap under the table. It was incredibly good to feel John’s presence near him, to soothe him, to assure him.

The flat at the 221B Baker Street has been filled with the sounds of clatter of the plates, the chinking of glass, the laughter of John, Mrs Hudson and Mrs Holmes chatting all the evening. It didn’t require to be a genius to figure out that it was their mother’s intelligence and her sense of observation which her sons inherited.

“It’s good that you’re a doctor John. It was really impossible to make Sherly to be examined. And feeding him? Oh, _that_ was a nightmare” Mrs Holmes said from above the chocolate cake. Sherlock has almost choked on his wine, Mycroft snorted discretely.

“It still is” John smiled glancing at Sherlock. He hasn’t been surprised that Mrs Holmes had known he was a doctor even if he had never mentioned it.

“And I suppose that examining him is no longer problem, isn’t it John?” Mycroft asked with an innocent smile. Sherlock and John flushed all together.

“Mycroft, table manners. And don’t be mean to you brother” Mrs Holmes reprimanded the older brother and continued eating her cake not bothered about the innuendo.

Sherlock took a deep breath and sighed a little inside. That was going to be a very, very long Christmas dinner.

 

“Oh God, I was beginning to think they would never leave” Sherlock sighed laying on the bed with his head on John’s flat stomach. He felt John’s fingers tangled in his hair playing with his black curls. They were wrapped in the white bed sheets listening to the long awaited silence.

“It wasn’t that bad _Sherly_ ” John smiled and then kissed him to silence him for one second. Sherlock touched the smaller man’s nape and drew him nearer kissing him more passionately at the nagging thought that today he was sure he had lost him. Suddenly, one idea struck him.

“John… John wait. What did Mycroft buy you for a Christmas present?” he asked sitting abruptly.

“Sherlock is it really important right now?” John sighed crawling to him and wrapping his arms around him.

“John”

“Alright, if you insist. A Rolex. Why?” there was no point arguing with Sherlock, even in a moment like this. Sherlock moved away a little bit, freeing himself from John’s arms. John knew that look on his lover’s face.

“Why? Why did Mycroft buy you a Rolex? Why did he ask…? Oh… _Oh_ ” Sherlock looked stupefied.

“Sherlock? Why do you ask? What did he buy you?” he asked watching the detective closely.

“Noth…” Sherlock commenced but then he looked at John like he saw him for the first time in his life. “Um… A shirt. A really awful one.” He lied. He remembered all the thoughts, feelings, the loneliness, the madness, the drugs and his uncertainty from yesterday and from his past. Now he was sure, now he wasn’t afraid of anything, now he knew that there was no longer Sherlock Holmes without John Watson. He was sure that nothing will change after this Christmas because he’ll never let anything change. John’s kisses brought him to the reality, his arms surrounding his neck, caressing his back.

“Enough thinking for today” John whispered kissing him fiercely and tugging him down on the top of him.

 

“I hope Mrs Hudson drunk enough wine to be deeply asleep” John said catching his breath and smiling at Sherlock who just laid down next to him. He couldn’t stop looking at Sherlock’s ruffled hair, his eyes which just have been so dark for him.

“Oh, I think she is” the taller man gasped running his fingers through his dark curls, he glanced at John and smiled smugly. “Or even if she’s not, wasn’t it worth it?” he teased him.

In the middle of the night, John drew up to Sherlock resting his head on the man’s torso.

“Why were you so worried about my absence? There were so many times you hadn’t noticed I was away. Why now?” he asked silently feeling already sleepy but the thought didn’t want to leave him alone.

“You don’t understand John. There is a huge difference between me not caring about your absence, your ignored presence and your absence when I don’t know where you are. Today I didn’t know where did you go, when will go come back, I didn’t know that you were going out – and I always know that. _That_ was worrying me. Because I always know where you are, where you are going, even if sometimes I ignored that you are away. I always know” Sherlock said calmly stroking John’s fair, soft hair feeling his warm breath on his skin. John didn’t respond to that, he just kissed Sherlock’s neck because he couldn’t reach higher in this position. Before minute passed he was asleep.

 

_Sherlock is pacing through the living room. He’s certainly looking for something. I told him million and millions of times to pay attention where he put his own belongings. But now he’s working on a serial killer case and since the game is on – Sherlock doesn’t care about the mere mortals’ problems. We are invited to the banquet with Mycroft to celebrate a New Year’s Eve…_

“John! John where is my phone?!” Sherlock exclaimed rummaging through the sofa and then his bag.

“Under the coffee table!”

_It’s a real surprise that Sherlock agreed to attend this… banquet. Since this Christmas some things have changed…_

“John! John have you see the sample box?!” Sherlock was in the kitchen preparing his own laboratory on their kitchen table.

“Second shelf on the left!”

_… but s …_

“John! The album?!”

“Under your laptop!”

_...som …_

“The Lestrade’s files?!”

“In the bathroom!” John answered and sighed shaking his head with a smile. He deleted the unfinished sentence and instead he wrote :

_But maybe, nothing has changed, at all._


End file.
